


Steven of Oz

by tisfan



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wizard of Oz Fusion, Bondage, Dreams and Nightmares, Explicit Sexual Content, I might be crazy and wrong, Multi, Multiple Pairings, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-19 21:31:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2403608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisfan/pseuds/tisfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morpheus invades the dreams of those heroes in the Tower. </p><p>The nice thing about dreams, anything can happen.</p><p>The bad part about dreams; if you die in the dream, you die in real life.</p><p>ON HIATUS INDEFINITELY<br/>(I might come back to this eventually... but I dunno, I kinda lost it somewhere)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

 

 

_Science Fiction - Double Feature_  
 _Dr. X will build a creature_  
 _See androids fighting Brad and Janet_  
 _Anne Francis stars in Forbidden Planet_  
 _Oh-oh at the late night, double feature, picture show._  
 _I wanna go, oh-oh, to the late night double feature picture show._  
 _By RKO, oh-oh, to the late night double feature picture show._  
 _In the back row to the late night double feature picture show._

– **Rocky Horror Picture Show** , Science Fiction, Double Feature

Movie night may well have been Steve's favorite part of living in the Avenger's Tower. Even if he and Bucky were constantly having to defend their preferred films. Especially in the wake of the developing CGI tech. Tony was very offended about Steve's stated dislike for computer generated special effects. Like Tony had created them. (Some research on Bucky's part revealed that some of the CGI companies had funding from Stark Industries, after which Steve kept his mouth shut, but the damage was already done.) Although Steve loved the original _Star Wars_.

Now those were effects that he could get behind. Particularly in that one piece, in Empire Strikes Back, where the rebels were flying over snow dunes in speeders, searching for Han and Luke. Steve, who'd jumped off buildings, run rescue missions on top of moving bullet trains, drowned more than once, and parachuted into missions sans parachute, still got that little roller-coaster dip in his stomach every time they went down one of those hills.

Or maybe it was just that he'd have Bucky snuggled up against his side, and when had that become the norm? Steve remembered as a kid hiding in the crook of _Bucky's_ arm during the movies, and later, when they got too old to get away with that in public, pressing his leg discretely against Buck's, pretending to reach for popcorn at the same time so their greasy fingers would brush against each other's in the darkness.

Clint was fond of movie nights, too, even if he did tend to watch them suspended in the rafters of the entertainment room. (Steve suspected that Tony had completely unnecessary rafters installed in the room just to give Clint someplace to hang out.) Clint insisted that they watch either 1) movies _no one_ had seen or 2) movies that at least one person in the room passionately loved. Which got quite a few of Clint's favorite movies watched, and they were all, to a one, very, very bad movies.

Natasha never suggested a movie, but she watched everything with a truly disturbing amount of focus, as if she were studying the characters for a mission. This bothered Steve right up until she dropped face-first onto the floor one night (during a screening of _Legends of the Fall_ ) and cried for almost an hour. She had a knife in her hand, so providing comfort had been difficult, at best. Of all people, Bruce had been the one to manage to pull her off the floor and hug her and get her to blow her nose.

Steve offered the popcorn to Bucky, who took a handful. The MGM lion came on, roared. Tonight was one of Thor's rare picks. He hadn't known lots of movies at first, of course he hadn't. Asgardians had some other forms of entertainment, but Jane had been slowly getting him to watch more and more films, and apparently this one had caught his interest.

“Nice to be back at it,” Tony said. “No world to save today, no worrying about what Hydra is up to, no concerns that any of the dozens of high powered villains we've sent to the Freezer are about to descend upon us, nothing but bloody vengeance in mind.”

“Shut up, Tony.” Steve shivered. Not that Tony didn't have a point; it had been nearly eight weeks since the last time they'd been able to gather up and just watch a movie. The world had been a frantically unpleasant place for the last two months, but at least tonight, Steve wasn't going to worry about that. He was going to watch a movie, snuggle with his boyfriend, and later, make very long and sensual love. Because they could. And the world could wait.

“Yeah, punk,” Bucky piped up. “Th' movie's startin'.”

The film was an old one, familiar, gut-wrenchingly familiar, the screen was amber and gray.

_The Wizard of Oz._

Steve twitched. He'd remembered taking a couple of dames, well, technically, Bucky took a dame, and the dame's friend, and Steve, tagging along, loyal as ever, to see that film, back in '39. They'd been barely more than kids, all wet behind the ears and the War that would change their lives forever was hadn't even started yet, not even in Europe, although things and powers had been moving behind the scenes for a while. But certainly it wasn't anything that _Americans_ needed to worry about.

That time, the girls had split up on the outside – Steve's date apparently got scared easily and she wanted an aisle seat so she could flee the theater at a moment's notice, and Steve was seated between her and Bucky. Bucky's foot had been nudged up against his for almost the entire film, and since Steve's date (what had her name been? It didn't matter, she barely glanced at him the entire date.) spend most of the movie squinched as far away from him as possible, Steve had eaten popcorn and pretended that he was alone with Bucky.

The music, God. So familiar. One of the last good times Steve could remember before the War, before everything changed. He blinked, glad that Tony always insisted that the lights were turned down. If anyone noticed that Steve was crying during the credits, they pretended not to.

Bucky's hand tightened on Steve's thigh and he snuggled restlessly down until he was lying with his head in Steve's lap, Steve's arm draped over his shoulder. Steve could feel Bucky's heart rate increased, could hear the speed of his breath. That movie had meant something to him, too.

_For nearly forty years this story has given faithful service to the Young in Heart; and time has been powerless to puts its kindly philosophy out of fashion._

_To Those of you who have been faithful to it in return_

_... and to the Young in heart... we dedicate this picture._

Dorothy and Toto, familiar, iconic, loved, raced up the lane, looking behind them in terror, as if being chased....

 

 

~#~

Outside, unseen, someone waited.

“Oh, I'll get you my pretty, I'll get you...” Robert Markham, known as Morpheus, lingered. Telepathically linked, he watched everything through the eyes of his chosen subject.

Weeks ago, while the Avengers had been out, Morpheus had taken over staff, had made arrangements, and now, now everything was going to be perfect. Ebon energy flowed around him, building, building.

The gas canister went off with no sound, no trace. The gas was odorless, colorless, and subtle. It wouldn't make them slump over, like the dead, giving the super-soldiers or the Asgardian menace time to notice, sound an alarm. It would, instead, encourage sleep. They would be cheerful, warm... comfortable. And then sleeping.

Morpheus rubbed his hands together. “Poppies... Poppies. Poppies will put them to sleep. Sleeeeep. Now they'll sleeeeep!”

He cackled. (He'd been working on that laugh. Good thing he had a vocal coach.)


	2. Dreaming in 50 Shades of Brown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which dreams begin...

_Down at the train they go to Independence every day_  
But anywhere else now seems like a million miles away  
And I must have been high to believe that i would ever leave  
Now I'm just a flat fine line like the Wichita Skyline 

_Shawn Colvin, Wichita Skyline_

Steve dreamed in black and white, or at least several shades of brown.

He ran, checking behind him. Something, _someone_ was following him, someone he was terrified of, and angry with at the same time. He kept turning, to make sure they weren't closing on him. Had he lost them? Were they behind him even now? He turned, ran, turned. He couldn't run fast enough to get away. 

And even if he left his foe behind, as he'd left so many foes behind in the past, they'd eventually catch him, drag some nameless terror out of his past, make him pay for every mistake he'd made until his dreams and ideals were nothing put pencil shavings in the trash. Useless. Worthless.

Someone ran behind him, to his side, in front of him. A beloved companion.

He squatted on the road; it was flat and empty behind him. Devoid, for the moment, of an enemy. 

“Did she hurt you?” he found himself asking of his companion. “She tried to, didn't she?”

Dum-E, one of Tony's bots, cocked its mobile gripper at him. Dum-E, Steve maintained, had evidenced some amount of cleverness in the past, regardless of what Tony said, or the 'bot's own nomenclature. But it was no JARVIS, capable of speech, of advanced reasoning; just an arm, some mobilization tools, and a small processor.

Dum-E didn't say anything, just twisted its gripper at Steve like a dog cocking its head. One of these days, Steve thought, he was going to sneak into Tony's lab and glue great big googlie eyes onto Dum-E, just to see how long it took Tony to notice.

Steve blinked, shook his head. Where the heck was he? He raised his hands to rub at his eyes, stopped, stared. His arms were amber, pale and washed out. Everything was pale and washed out.

Dum-E squeaked at him, rolling down the flat road toward a small farm in the distance.

“Is that... where are...” 

Flat. Nothing but flat and farmland everywhere he looked. The clouds were motionless, an ugly flat brown scrim against a tan sky. The grass to the sides of the road was wheat-chaff, crumpled. Dead. The road lead in two directions, toward the farm, which was surrounded by soft, yellow light. Comforting, familiar. And back, away. Into the darkness and terror.

“I guess we'll go this way, and see what we see.” Not much choice, really, Steve decided. He straightened his shoulders and jogged toward the farm, Dum-E at his heels.

Steve was a kid from Brooklyn, but if he'd ever given thought to a farm, or farm life, this is what it would have looked like. Fat, content cows chewed their cud with careful deliberateness in a small pen outside the barn. Chickens, fluffy and honey-colored, ran free in all directions, pecking at the ground. A clothesline hung from the farmhouse to a tree, and an old, rubber tire swing twisted in the breeze, dangling from the tree branch.

Peggy, oh, god, Peggy! She was there, poking at something in a box, while Dr. Erskine wrote something down on a piece of paper. 

“Peggy!” He yelled. She didn't look around and Steve moved closer, still yelling. “Peggy, Peggy, you're still young? Dr. Erskine, I... I saw you die. How is this even possible?”

“Hush, Steve,” Peggy said, not looking around, “can't you see we're trying to count?”

“But Peggy, my God, you look wonderful, Peggy, I've missed you -”

“Don't bother us right now. Steve, can't you see that this old incubator's gone bad? We're likely to lose some of our chicks!” Dr. Erskine lifted a baby chicken and placed it in the front pocket of his lab coat.

“Chickens? What?” And chickens there were, dozens of fluffy, pale little bobbles with feet and they all chirped with a little more enthusiasm than was absolutely necessary. Peggy moved a half dozen chicks to a small wood-slatted crate where a broody hen fidgeted. The hen did not seem delighted to receive the chicks. “I don't understand. What's going on here?”

“Steve, please.” She was so beautiful, full of life, and angry with him, as Peggy had always been some sort of angry with him. He'd done so many things wrong with Peggy, hadn't known what he had, hadn't realized that she, too, was falling in love, and... well, by the time they both realized it, it was too late. He was gone, hibernating, and by the time he woke up, she was long since aged, almost dead. Half the time she couldn't remember who he was, and then when she did, it was bittersweet all over again. She'd be so happy to see him, and he wouldn't have taken that joy away from her, not for anything, but he couldn't stop wishing that, maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't have to start over, every single time.

“No, really, I. Peggy, just tell me what's going on, please, I thought I... I thought I moved through time, that I fell asleep for seventy years and when I woke up, everything I knew and loved was gone, and half the time you didn't remember who I am, and Bucky, God, Peggy. Bucky, they did things to him, terrible things, and it's my fault because I let him fall and...”

“Stop, Steve,” Peggy said. She never really looked directly at him. “Can't you see we're busy? We'll make time for your nonsense later.”

Steve stepped back, shocked, stunned, confused. Erskine continued to count chickens. They'd never, never treated him like that, neither of them. The people he knew in Brooklyn, yeah, frequently they ignored him, or belittled him, or sometimes when he just couldn't keep his mouth shut any longer, they tried to shut it for him, but Peggy had never treated him like an empty can, something to kick out of the way and pretend didn't exist. Erskine had always been interested in Steve's opinion, had always admired and complimented Steve, treated him with warmth and regard.

“Yeah, yeah, okay, later,” Steve said, backing away. He didn't understand any of this.

Nearby, Tony, Clint and Bruce were... were what, fixing a wagon? What the hell?

Not that Tony and Bruce couldn't fix a wagon, Steve thought, bemused. He wandered toward them.

“Cap,” Clint greeted him. “You're just not usin' your head or nothin'. Like you think it's stuffed with straw? Trace it back, I know you c'n figure this out. Man, cause you gotta figure this out. We're all counting on you.”

“What?” 

Bruce dropped part of the wagon on Tony's hand, who bellowed, complained, stuck his finger in his mouth. “You're such a baby, Tony,” Bruce said. “See, no blood, no foul.”

“Like I don't have enough to do around here without you making things harder than they have to be, “ Tony mumbled. “Now, kiss it and make it better.”

Bruce obliged and both Clint and Steve stepped away from them, because Steve wasn't stupid and he recognized that particular look in Tony's eyes. When Bruce wasn't hulking out and ripping his own clothes off, Tony was sometimes doing it instead. 

Clint gripped Steve's shoulder. “I'm serious, Cap. I was the last one, so high up in the rafters and I saw...”

“What did you see, Clint?” Absent-mindedly, Steve climbed up onto the rail of a nearby pigpen and started walking around the edge, balancing. He didn't really have to think about it. The pigs grunted and wandered around, eating corn out of the trough and rooting around in the mud.

“All of you fell asleep, like almost all at once... we were watching a movie, and then Bucky rolled out of your lap and onto the floor. You started to reach for him and slumped over. Everyone's asleep, like they were knocked out or somethin'... and I thought I heard... “ Clint blinked, his eyes went a little fuzzy around the edges.

“Thought you heard what?”

“I thought I heard someone laughing.”

“We're asleep? This is a _dream_?” Steve was so startled, he windmilled like crazy and fell into the pigpen.

“Steve!” Clint's voice barely reached him, so buried under pig squeals and stamping feet as he was. He was driven into the mud by squealing animals, and pigs, real pigs, were a lot larger than he might have expected. And heavy. And not at all concerned by him thrashing around underneath them. Mud was driven into his mouth.

Out of nowhere, Clint's hand came down, grabbed his and jerked him out of the pen.

“Cap!” Clint was shaking, hard.

“I'm fine,” Steve said. He spat mud, wiped his face. He had a few bruises, nothing serious.

“You're not fine,” Clint muttered. “We're in a dream, and I don't think you understand.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This is a real dream. A nightmare. We're bound by the rules of the dream, and we'd better learn 'em damn fast, and Cap -”

“Yeah?” Steve wiped mud off his chin.

“I don't think everybody knows. I was tryin' to talk to Tony, before you got here. He doesn't... realize that he's Tony. He thinks he's someone else.”

“Who does he think he is?”

“A farmhand. A tinkerer. And not a very smart one, either. We're gonna have to get all of us out of this, using just our brains, which in case you hadn't noticed, ain't a considerable amount of fire powder.”

Steve scowled. “Thanks a lot.”

Clint shrugged. “They never paid us for our brains, Cap. We're soldiers and snipers. But I do know one more thing. If you die in this dream, you'll die in real life.”


	3. Trouble When She Walks In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She didn't know how she'd gotten here. She couldn't remember who she was. She was back in the Red Room, and then set loose with instructions. Catch the robot, bring it back. The robot had information that would let her go home. Let her... ::crackle, zip, pop:: her brain couldn't catch the thought, it was like static, static in her brain. Easier to just follow instructions.
> 
> Thinking hurt, it hurt, and get the robot, get it. Bring it back.
> 
> She climbed onto the bike, started pedaling. There was only one road, only one way to go. Only one way to get there.
> 
> “Erskine!” She banged on the gate. “Erskine, I know you're in there.”

_'Cause I knew you were trouble when you walked in_  
So shame on me now  
Flew me to places I'd never been  
'Til you put me down, oh  
I knew you were trouble when you walked in  
So shame on me now  
Flew me to places I'd never been  
Now I'm lying on the cold hard ground  
Oh, oh, trouble, trouble, trouble 

_\--Taylor Swift, Trouble_

“What do you mean?” Steve tried to grab Clint by the collar, but was interrupted as Peggy came back, carrying a tray of snacks.

“I know a couple of layabout farm hands that are gonna be lookin' for work before too long,” she snapped. “Now, have some crullers, they're fresh fried, and get back to work.”

“But Peggy,” Steve protested, “I just want to know -”

“Steve,” Peggy said, brushing at his hands impatiently, “you're always worrying about everything so. Just find yourself something to do when you won't get in any trouble.” She hurried away, leaving him standing there, alone.

Well, aside from Dum-E, who came up behind him, looking concerned in that weird way that only one of Tony's robots could manage. Steve shook his head.

“Stay out of trouble? Do you think that's even possible, Dum-E?”

Dum-E didn't say. The bot had one of the crullers in his claw and offered it to Steve. 

“Thanks.” Steve sat down on the tire swing, looking off into the sky, confused.

~*~

She didn't know how she'd gotten here. She couldn't remember who she was. She was back in the Red Room, and then set loose with instructions. Catch the robot, bring it back. The robot had information that would let her go home. Let her... ::crackle, zip, pop:: her brain couldn't catch the thought, it was like static, static in her brain. Easier to just follow instructions.

Thinking hurt, it hurt, and get the robot, get it. Bring it back.

She climbed onto the bike, started pedaling. There was only one road, only one way to go. Only one way to get there.

“Erskine!” She banged on the gate. “Erskine, I know you're in there.”

The Doctor came out, brushing specks of feathers from his shirt. “Ms. Romanov, what can I do for you today?”

“I know that Steve is here,” she said. “I need to see him right away.”

“Of course he's here,” Erskine said, placid and mild. “He lives here. Come in, come in.” He let the gate slam, which smacked her soundly on the backside. Natasha jumped, startled, her hand going to the hidden gun she had inside her sleeve, but Erskine had already turned away, calling for Steve, and for Peggy.

“I want that robot,” Natasha demanded, as soon as Steve was in front of her. The robot trailed along behind him, the sound it made as it moved like a spike through her head. Suddenly, she hated nothing more than the robot, wanted nothing more than to beat it to pieces, to destroy it, to destroy everything that cared about it, or wanted it. Especially – she gazed up at Steve, glared really. He was the cause of all this, of all her pain, of her return to the Red Room. It was his fault and she'd make him pay, pay dearly for it. Kill him, if she could.

But not here, not in front of his family. Draw him out, lure him with the robot. 

Steve frowned. 

“Nat? What are you talking about?” 

Her brain hurt, it hurt. “I have orders here, unless you want to go against the law. I'm going to take that robot into town and have him destroyed.”

She unfolded the piece of paper, handed it to Erskine, who looked at it, handed it to Peggy. Steve glanced at it, as well.

“Nat, this is a blank piece of paper. What do you want Dum-E for?”

“You'll give him to me, or I'll bring a lawsuit and take your whole farm.” And kill every single one of you while I'm at it. 

Steve took her by the shoulders, shook her. “Natasha, wake up. Don't you remember me? Don't you know me?”

“I know you're a menace, Steve Rodgers, and that wretched robot of yours has to go! I won't tolerate it here, not in my town.” Her head ached. She wrenched free of his hands, just having him touch her, she felt ill.

“Give over the robot, Steve,” Peggy said. “It's not like we need it. You'll take care of everything. You always do.”

Steve frowned, but her Natasha pack the robot up into her bike's sidecar. The robot waved, forlorn, as she got on the bike.

~*~

Steve leaned against the gate, confused, watched Natasha pedal away.

“Go in the house now, Steve,” Peggy said. “Wash up for dinner.”

Steve shook his head. This was all too confusing. He felt constrained by rules he didn't understand. Why would someone want Dum-E? Why would... someone want to take him? And why did Steve feel this wrenching sense of loss and terror as he watched Natasha take the robot away? Like his chances of ever getting out of this crazy mess were growing narrower by the moment.

He went in the house. 

Clint was there, in his room, sitting on his bed.

And how did Steve even know which room was his? If he stopped to think, he was confused again, but as soon as he operated strictly on instructions, no matter who was giving them, he fit in just fine. Felt a lot less queasy and strange.

“What are you doing in here?”

Clint reached out, grabbed the tail end of Steve's shirt, and reeled him in. Surprised, still confused, Steve let him. When Clint had Steve pulled all the way down, Clint wrapped a hand around the back of Steve's neck and kissed him.

Steve wasn't adverse to being kissed. In fact, the last time he'd been kissed, it was weird and awkward and still pretty damn nice. This kiss was also weird, awkward and pretty damn nice. He leaned into it, letting Clint lick his mouth open. He inhaled, tasting Clint's breath, feeling the rhythm of his chest moving. 

He drew back, slightly. Clint's pupils were huge, wide with longing.

“What was that for?” Steve asked, feeling a silly little smile tease at the corner of his mouth.

“It's a dream, Steve. All of this is a dream.” He kissed Steve's lower lip, ran his tongue over the curve. “And I always wanted to do that. At least once. Maybe more than once. More than once is good, too.”


	4. More is Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty much entirely smut and no plot at all. If smut's not your sort of thing, skip it. Or, conversely, if smut is your sort of thing, this will make the chapter easier to find and re-read. A lot. Because, you know, smut.
> 
> Clint/Steve smut.... because, well, I sail all the 'ships.

_When ordinary lovers_  
 _Don't feel what you feel_  
 _And real-life situations lose their thrill_  
 _Imagination's unreal_  
 _Imaginary lover, imaginary lover_  
 _You're mine anytime_  
 _– The Atlanta Rhythm Section, Imaginary Lovers_

“Clint,” Steve whispered, falling to his knees in front of the man who was on his bed, letting himself be kissed again, a third time. God, the absolutely filthy things Clint did with his tongue and lips... Steve shivered. 

“It's a dream,” Clint said, soothing. “It doesn't mean anything.”

“Doesn't it?” Steve asked. “Not even if I want it to?”

Clint nuzzled along his neck, drew a soft arrow of kisses to his ear. “If you want it to mean something, I won't stop you.”

“I don't know,” Steve said. “What if I want to take it further than a couple of – admittedly, very nice – kisses?” 

Clint pulled Steve down to sit on the bed beside him, pressing his chest against Steve’s arm. Steve leaned in to brush his lips against Clint’s cheek and mouth. “God, Steve, you are going to kill me, you know?” 

Steve let Clint pull him into bed. Clint took possession of Steve’s mouth in a way that said he was absolutely serious about this.

Steve let Clint kiss him. Clint kissed as greedily and passionately as before, practically consuming him until Steve urgently need air. The hunger in Clint’s kiss made Steve feel as though Clint desperately needed him in order to stay alive. If this was how Clint kissed, Steve wondered at the intensity with which Clint would make love. The prospect thrilled and frightened him.

Their hands explored each other’s chests, backs and arms. Touching Clint and being touched by him was as amazing as Steve could have expected. 

Steve blinked. “Where the hell did our clothes go?”

Clint smirked, running one hand over Steve's leg, where only his shorts remained. “Dream. Convenient, huh? Can I take your boxers off?” 

“Do you even need to?” 

“Probably not, but I want to,” Clint said, smirking.

Steve rolled onto his back and lifted his hips as Clint slid the shorts down. He got them as far as Steve’s knees and Steve kicked them off the rest of the way. Was he ready for this? He didn't know, but... _it's just a dream_ , he told himself. _A dream, a wonderful, magical, frightening and weird and still amazing dream._

Clint was on his left side, propped up on one elbow and staring at Steve’s cock with fascination. He started to reach out his hand and stopped.

“Can I touch you—your…?” Clint whispered.

“You can do whatever you want,” Steve told him. “Touch me however or wherever you want to.”

Clint looked into Steve’s eyes before slowly reaching his hand out and touching Steve’s cock gently, using his fingertips to trace a line up the shaft. He nearly jumped when Steve moaned softly at his caress. A few more tentative touches and Clint wrapped his hand loosely around Steve.

“I don’t want to do this wrong,” Clint said.

“It works just like yours. You’re not going to break it,” Steve reassured him.

“What do you like? How do you want me to do it?”

“Hey, it’s cheating if I gave you the answer before you even started the quiz, wouldn’t it?” Steve joked, lightening the mood enough so Clint smiled back. “Won’t it be more fun if you figure out what I like yourself?

“Making jokes?”

“If there's ever a time to keep one's sense of humor,” Steve said, “it's when there's more than one dick in the picture.”

Clint stroked Steve, gradually feeling more comfortable and applying more pressure, twisting his hand now and then. If Steve moaned more loudly Clint kept at whatever he was doing. Steve didn’t think he’d seen anything more adorable than the look of concentration on Clint’s face as he tried to please him.

“I’d really like it if you kissed me while you’re at it.”

Clint leaned over and kissed him softly while he continued stroking and pulling at Steve’s cock. Steve was so close, but wanted to last. He was defenseless. The feel of Clint’s mouth on his sent Steve over the edge. His body shuddered, and he groaned into Clint’s mouth.

Clint chuckled, an impossibly smug little smirk on his lips. “Well, this looks bad,” he said.

“Oh, no,” Steve said. He said up, blushing a little self-conscious. “I'm sorry, I...”

“Shhhh,” Clint said. “I liked it. It's what I wanted. Watching you... wow, that was something else. Nothing like it.”

Steve ran a hand through his own hair, down across his face. “Clint, that felt -”

What it felt like would have to wait. An inquisitive Dum-E stuck his claw through the window, twisting with some sort of query, some sort of need.

“Shit. Natasha's coming back after him,” Clint said. “I heard that conversation, earlier. And what's more, I saw her face. She looked like that... after the Red Room.”

“The what?”

Clint buttoned up his shirt, and how the hell, god damn, how did Clint fucking Barton get better at this dream stuff? Maybe because he could just go with it, that was the kind of guy Clint was, easy and laid back and just... went with the flow. Steve kept trying to _reason_ with the flow and that just wasn't working. He found his clothes – they were even neatly folded and damn, that was too weird, even for a dream, really – and got dressed.

“Yeah, Bucky don't tell you this story, does he? No one wants to hear it. The Red Room. Where Hydra does their thing, that brain-washing thing. That's what Nat always called it.”

Steve shuddered. “That...”

“Looks bad. I know. You'd better go.”

“Go where?”

“Wherever.” Clint shrugged. “I don't know. Follow the plot. We need to figure a way out of this dream. A way to get us all home again. Safely.”

“I don't know what I'm supposed to do,” Steve protested. 

“Don't look at me,” Clint said. “I'm just the hired gun. Find... someone smarter. Tony, maybe, if you can wake him up a bit. Someone's gotta know how to wake up from this.”

“What if there is no way?”

“Well, then we're screwed.” Clint winked.

“Did you just -”

“Go!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I promised I'd update more regularly...
> 
> But then there was this ER trip where the doctors were throwing words at me like "possible cardiac event" and "blood clot in the lungs" about my partner of 19 years. (seriously, I have been in a relationship with this man for longer than some of my readers have been alive, so it was - and still is - a bit of a stressful thing...)
> 
> Everyone is fine now and recovering (altho I expect there will be a cardio event when I get the BILL for our little jaunt... yay!) but I've been way behind on my real life work. And because I'm behind on that, I'm behind on this... enjoy some smut for your patience...


	5. Not Really Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve attempts to find help...
> 
> what he finds is Loki...

_I've walked these streets_

_In a carnival_

_Of sights to see_

_All the cheap thrill seekers_

_The vendors & the dealers_

_They crowded around me_

_\--Natalie Merchant, Carnival_

Steve wandered the road for some time, Dum-E following along behind him. Eventually, he came across a wagon, normally drawn by a team of fat, fuzzy ponies that were currently tethered in the grass. 

“Rumors of my death, and all that,” said the man, coming out of the wagon. “Come, sit down. I never did get that drink, so I'll offer you one of mine. That would be all right with you, I think.”

Loki of Asgard. Or Loki of Jotunnheim. Thor's unholy (adopted) brother. He was dressed in midgard fashion, a dark suit with a crisp, white shirt, a tie, and a scarf of gold with green accents. His black hair was slicked back and he carried a cane; which was better, Steve thought, than the staff they'd seen him with before, with its unholy ability to steal minds. 

Steve scrambled backward, reaching for his shield, which wasn't there, of course it wasn't.

“Oh, stop,” Loki said. He sat down on an overturned milk-crate that had been pressed into service as a chair, along with a cabling spindle for a table. “I'm not going to hurt you. That wouldn't be any fun. Nor are you going to hurt me, since I'm one of the few people who can give you information. Also, in case it matters to you, I'm not actually here.”

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, some of us are here, and some of us aren't. Some of us are just random collections of spare thoughts and fears, a little bit of what you think of when you think about us. I wasn't in the room, you see, when the spell went off – and yes, yes, I know, magic is only technology that is sufficiently advanced enough to pass – and thus, what I actually am is an amalgam of what you think I ought to be.”

Steve blinked. “Do you even make sense?”

“Well, I usually do, yes, but I'm having to make do with what your pitiful human brain can comprehend. Admittedly, I did a much better job of pretending to be you than your mind is doing, pretending to be me.”

Steve's stomach sank. “When did you pretend to be me?” Because that could be a very, very bad thing, Loki running around in disguise.

Loki's lips twisted into an interesting mockery of a smile. “Ask my dear brother, you'll see him before I do.”

He poured a soft, amber liquid into two cups and placed both of them on the wire-spindle table. “Have a drink. It would ruin the fun if I was to poison you now.”

“And you're all about fun.”

“I put the fun in dysfunctional,” Loki said.

Steve sat, reluctant, and on the very edge of his milk-crate. He picked up the drink and swirled it around the bottom of the glass. The aroma was beyond amazing; if there was a substance left in this world, or any other, that could actually get him drunk, this would be it. And for that reason, he didn't drink it.

Loki chuckled, knowingly. He took a long, slow sip of the liquor and let it slosh around in his mouth before swallowing, his throat working with smooth, sensual motions. 

“If you got something to say,” Steve said, “you may as well say it.”

“Such impatience,” Loki chided. “You'd think you didn't trust me.”

“I don't,” Steve retorted.

“I know, I know. Took over your friend's mind, blah blah, killed Agent Coulson, who in case you hadn't registered this fact, did, actually, point a disintegration device at me. Which has nothing to do with anything, because as I said before. I am not Loki. I am your mind, pretending to be Loki. So, ask your questions, and I'll do the best I can with what little brain cells you have to give you some addling pap to answer them.”

Steve inhaled. He didn't trust Loki, and he certainly couldn't see why his own brain would present him an image of the godling as a source of reliable information. 

“Maybe,” Loki mused, as if he'd heard Steve's thoughts, and perhaps he did, “it's because you don't really trust yourself, either. You don't know what you know, you don't know if you can believe what you know, and you're pretty sure you're in a lot of trouble if you can't figure it out. But -” he held up one long-fingered hand “-I can tell you one thing. If you want to just give up, put the burden down, live your life as you want to, this is your one, and your only, opportunity to do so.”

Steve blinked. “What?”

“The love of your life, Peggy Carter, she's dead now. Shame, that. Such a brief lifespan most humans have. Gone before you can blink. How long do you think you'll last, Steven? You're almost a hundred years old now and yet, you still look twenty-seven. That's not entirely the ice; will you look forty, perhaps, sometime in the 23rd century, as humans count time? Won't that get old and tiresome, fighting the good fight, watching everyone you love fall to age and ruin? Watching your government betray your trust over, and over? Stay here, stay asleep. You can have your Peggy and your Bucky and your Clint, for that matter. You can have it all. Every bit of it. As much as you want, with no hurt feelings, no death, no betrayal. Just don't wake up.”

“You're a liar,” Steve said.

“Then so are you,” Loki quipped back. 

“How do I wake up?” 

“Now, there's the question,” Loki said. He steepled his fingers together, tapping the index fingers against his chin. “You've been drugged, so, you'll have to wait for that to wear off, there's no getting around that. And as long as you're dreaming, you are vulnerable to your enemy's plans. Whatever they are, I couldn't hazard a guess. So, you'll want to keep on the move. A stationary target is always more vulnerable. Find your friends, gather them up. And keep in mind -” 

“What?”

“Two things. One, some of you are more asleep than others. You, for instance. You can think and act independently of the dream. Some of your friends are more deeply asleep, they may mistake dreams for reality. Others, like me, are not here at all, and can only act within the confines of what you know about them... which wouldn't keep you from enjoying a little private encounter with your Peggy, would it? You've always wondered what you missed, how she would be. Would she cry out with passion, or would she sigh softly?”

“You shut up about her!” Steve's hands curled into fists.

“Now, now,” Loki said. “There's no point in getting mad at yourself over it.”

“What's the other thing?” Steve forced himself to ask.

“You might, just might, want to run.”

“Why?”

For an answer, Loki pointed over his shoulder. “Bad weather.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the original production of the Wizard of Oz, the fortune teller that Dorothy bumps into is named Professor Marvel.
> 
> I didn't remember this until after I'd started writing this fic and was watching Wizard of Oz to track the plot...

**Author's Note:**

> this might have been a little bit inspired by my daughter, who was watching Super Hero Squad and they ran into Morpheus, who sent the Squadies into the Nightmare land to play Candyland against Thanos. Which was probably one of the funnier things I've watched in a while.
> 
> **historical notes, Wizard of Oz was released August 15th, 1939. It didn't do well; ticket sales were very good, but high production and distribution costs meant the film actually lost the studio over a million dollars.
> 
> World War II started, officially in Europe, on September 1, 1939, although there had been some skirmishes and conflicts beforehand, starting with Italy's invasion of Ethiopia in 1935. The Japan bombing of Pearl Harbor was not until December 7, 1941, and the war ended in 1945, six years and one day after it started. Steve was born in 1918 (according to his enlistment form in the First Avengers movie) on July 4th. So he would have been 21 when the Wizard of Oz came out. 
> 
> Thus concludes your history lesson for today; mostly because I was interested. Steve mentions in Avengers that he "understood that reference" about flying monkeys, so it's canon material that he's seen the film.


End file.
